12/1/19 Nobody Likes a Cookie Counter

12/1/19
Nobody Likes a Cookie Cutter
by Holly Winter

Some nights I nest at home with a good meal and a good book; other nights the very thought of sitting at home disgusts me. So even with temperatures near freezing and a slow, bitter wind blowing dead leaves around on a moonless night, I was in the mood to get out of the house and let someone else pay for the heat to warm me.

So I called my friends.

First Julie (My friend who is always up for a literary event.) and I went to the Spring Street Gallery in Newburg for a book signing and poetry reading. It was our first visit there and I didn't know what to expect. We were delighted to find free desserts, drinks and a room filled with people in the mood to listen to authors read their writes all for a suggested donation of $15.

The authors provided nibbles, since the theme of the night was food, and I ate several almond cookies and swear they're the best cookie I've had in years. (Not all at once. One cookie at a time, with several minutes between my eating so anyone watching was likely to forget that I'd just eaten the same cookie a few moments before.) 

Just in case anyone was keeping count, I picked up a chocolate cookie, too, so as not to hurt the author's feelings. I was sorry I bit into that chocolate one, it was ordinary and not worth the four bites, especially since I don't like chocolate. (No. You can't change my mind on this one. My friend Theresa has tried.) Why did I even reach for that cookie? To show appreciation for those cookbook authors making gluten-free cookies. Their kindness was most appreciated.

But what do you do when the author who is also the baker is standing right there and you've just taken a bite of a cookie that you don't care for? Spit it out? Stick the uneaten portion into your pocket to discard later? Put it back on the dish? Yeah. No. I ate it and was sorry for eating something that was less than desirable. 

To wash away that chocolate cookie, I ate another almond cookie. I didn't hear the authors thank me for helping to shine a spotlight on their recipe. They were nice people so they probably did thank me, but it a quiet way--maybe just between themselves like this,

"Thank goodness Holly came or we might have too many cookies left at the end of the night."

Though we were invited to eat as many cookies as we wanted, with the cookbook authors standing right there, I felt slightly conspicuous chowing down cookie after cookie. I told the authors that it was rare for me to like cookies so much, which is completely true. I also told them that I eat very little sugar, which is also true. 

And though this almond cookie was the new love of my cookie life, I worried the authors were secretly counting my cookie capacity, so I had to wait until both authors left the area or turned their heads to talk I could feel safe eating another cookie.

Nobody likes a cookie counter.

I felt bad about not buying the book--but it was big and heavy and I was pretty sure I would never make cookies that require you to arrange the almond slivers in a careful circle on each mound of cookie dough before it's baked into a flat, crunchy cookie. I'd probably just eat the raw cookie dough rather than spend time arranging each almond sliver on each cookie mound. 

One woman read poetry about food and I remember her mention about letting the universe lick the bowl when she baked and I wondered why she wouldn't help the universe out with that job. Hello? The universe can't be expected to command lightness and darkness, manage gravity AND lick out the bowl when you make cupcakes. 

Another cookbook author read from essays he and/or his wife had written. His writes were incredibly interesting, but didn't make me curious about the actual recipes in the cookbook. Were the recipes any good? Would I be required to buy slivered almonds and piece them into a design, one almond sliver at a time? I didn't buy this cookbook, either, due to my new fear of precise placements in baking. 

We had to leave early, so we stood in the back while I ate a few more cookies before we drive to Marlborough to meet Anne and Dianne for a Jimi Hendrix movie and then some Jimi musical performances from old white men with bandanas on their heads. (I don't know a lot about Jimi, but I'm up for any event of any kind if my friends are involved.)

Julie was ready to eat dinner and asked what I wanted. 

"I'm not hungry." I said. "I ate all of those cookies."

Julie looked deep into my eyes. "Cookies aren't dinner."

I love a friend who doesn't consider cookies to be food. I'll bet she doesn't even count calories when she's running on her treadmill for an hour every morning. As for me I have to pay attention since this pleurisy gig has taken over my health since I can't exercise right now.

No dinner for me.

I just sipped hot lemon water and took in the crowd, my age and older mostly wearing jeans. The music was too loud. Julie and I put earplugs into our ears at the same time, Dianne and Anne fashioned their own out of bits of paper napkin and stuffed them into their ears.

Dianne said something and I couldn't hear her. I removed one of my earplugs. 

"What?"

She removed one of her earplugs. "I can make a better earplug out of a paper napkin, I bend it like this and It works perfectly." She stuffed the horseshoe shaped piece of paper into her ear.

Anne and Julie each removed an earplug so Dianne could repeat herself.

Then we each put our plugs back into our ears and bopped our heads to the music, glad to be out on a Saturday night.